


V-Day Dangers

by LittleMissGriff



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: I REGRET NOTHING, M/M, fluffy as fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 20:45:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3354716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMissGriff/pseuds/LittleMissGriff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles came home from school on an average Thursday with evening plans exactly exciting enough for pizza rolls and procrastination. What he got was a basket on his doorstep.</p><p>It was pink. It was frilly. There was a distinct possibility it had a magic baby of destruction inside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	V-Day Dangers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lukespig](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Lukespig), [Swlfangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swlfangirl/gifts).



> Happy Valentines Day to lukepig over on tumblr! A huge shout out to all the mods who whipped up the Valentines-Day-Sterek-Edition exchange for this holiday season.

Stiles came home from school on an average Thursday with evening plans exactly exciting enough for pizza rolls and procrastination. What he got was a basket on his doorstep.

It was pink. It was frilly. There was a distinct possibility it had a magic baby of destruction inside. 

It was also two days before Valentine’s and that made it potentially a pipe bomb, planted by the likes of an absent Jackson Whittemore, a vengeful Peter Hale, or that weird mouth breather that sat in the back of the lunch room and probably wanted to start collecting the hearts of Beacon Hills local high schoolers before they got old and worn out - thanks Dad for that shining future. 

Anyway, the important thing was that there was a basket on his porch and the likelihood of it being anything good was basically nonexistent, but Stiles had to pass it to get inside and he was also shit at having a sense of self-preservation when curiosity got involved. Unless there were teeth. Usually, he was good about running away when there were teeth. Sometimes.

Carefully, he slammed the door of the Jeep, waiting carefully to see if the sound concussion would trigger an explosion, before he finally admitted things would probably be ok as long as he didn’t touch it. 

Then he touched it. 

Beneath the bright red lace trim, the trio of braided ribbons - white, red, and pink, respectively - trailing the wicker handle, and the bright pink tissue paper was a collection of…

Bath bombs?

Stiles blinked, giving the closest a good firm jab, just to make sure it wasn’t an explosive. Sure, no one except Lydia had proven themselves masters of flammable substances, but someone trying to kill him he was comfortable with. It was a thing, it happened. A giant basket of bath supplies was… unusual. 

But, there it was. Six bath bombs set on a little nest of - were those soap? The didn’t feel very soapy - and a bath pillow. Stiles dug around checking for a note that would explain that this basket was actually for Mrs. Doogan down the street. He found a set of red towels (Super soft, if the basket were for Mrs. Doogan, he might just steal those before he brought it over.) and a note.

‘Stiles -  
These should help with your stress.

Happy Valentine’s Day’

That, Stiles decided, was completely unhelpful.

He flipped the note shut, inspecting it for clues. The front - which he hadn’t actually seen, apparently whoever put it in the basket shoved it in backwards - was simple and white with a minimalist metallic red outline of a heart and the words ‘Be My Valentine’ scrawled in printed calligraphy. Mass market card, hand written note inside. The handwriting wasn’t delicate or swirled - it definitely wasn’t Lydia’s or Scott’s or his Dad’s, which cancelled out everyone’s handwriting he could recognize by sight - but it wasn’t aggressively blocky, either. 

Obviously, this mystery needed dedication and thought, Stiles decided. And pizza rolls. 

-

In the end, it took a bath. Or, well, Stiles took a bath. 

He sat in the tub with a lavender chamomile bomb bubbling around him, iidly rubbing a rose ginger bath melt - they weren’t soap, according to the little label tied around them - between his hands, hunched down to the water line with his thinking face aimed at the faucet. 

He frowned. It helped. He frowned harder and give the faucet a suspicious squint. 

Stiles was a master of mysteries. No spineless Valentine of dubious purpose would escape him. He demanded answers and answer he would have. He was Stiles the Magnificent, Captor of Calamities, Defeater of Devilry, Smotherer of Submarines.

He was making crashing noises and drowning his bath melt.

Stiles sighed and stuck the melt on the empty soap try on the side of the shower and sighed as his bomb fizzled its last fizzle and died. 

To refill the tub with hot water or accept the lurking tepid temperature and get out? He rubbed his wrinkled fingers together and decided his dad would probably have a conniption if he found his son Benjamin Buttoned in his bathroom because of a basket of dubious bath supplies. Also, he hadn’t had pizza rolls yet and the bath melts were starting to look appetizing.

Oh, and towel. Stiles clamored over the side of the tub, yanking the giant, fluffy, gorgeous, wonderous, magical monstrosity out of the basket. 

Oh. Oh. Not towel. Terry cloth robe. “Why, Valentine,” Stiles purred to himself as he cuddled up to the soft material, finally giving in and wrapping it around, “I think I’ve misjudged you.”

“Laura liked hers, too,” and Stiles was positive he’d closed that door when he came in here, but now it was filled with Derek who was staring at him in a bath robe doing things like leaning in doorframes and talking about dead sisters. 

Stiles handled the surprise with the same aplomb he handled everything unexpected these days. He screamed, flailed, and fell backwards into the tub. 

Derek, being the intrusive werewolf muscle machine that he was, grabbed him by the front of his robe and jerked him back to safety. Safety, which to Stiles’ chagrin, happened to be leaning into Derek’s chest. 

That’s it, Stiles was never accepting presents again. Screw holidays, Stiles was a man of predictability from this moment forward because the world wasn’t fair and he was still standing here, in his bathroom, with Derek staring at him in a robe, after nearly concussing himself on a tub where he spent the last hour immersed in lavender and rose scented gifts of questionable origin.

And the floor still didn’t have the decency to just swallow him up. Bastard. 

“Sorry,” Derek said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.” Like it was perfectly reasonable that he show up in Stiles’ bathroom. It was a Thursday, after all. What else would he do on Thursday!

“Yeah,” Stiles replied smartly. 

Then he stared silently at Derek. Derek stared silently back.

It could have been really romantic except for the part where it was awkward and wildly uncomfortable. 

Derek finally cleared his throat and stepped back, looking at a really interesting piece of plaster over Stiles’ right shoulder, “So, uh. You like it?”

Stiles blinked. He blinked again. Then he blinked at the basket. And then down at himself. 

“Oh.” So, Derek. Basket of bath goods. That was… unexpected. “Yeah. Everything’s, uh. Nice. Super nice.”

“Yeah, Laura had a place in New York she liked for stuff. I just called and asked them to put something together,” and Derek Hale was being bashful like he didn’t know what to do with himself, scratching the back of his head and mumbling and if he scuffed his foot, Stiles was gonna die. Coo and die, because God damn him and his murder brows, Sourwolf was fucking adorable. 

“Good stuff,” Stiles bobbed his head, “good tastes. I mean, I don’t have an abundance of experience with bath stuff, but uh, this was, uh. It was good. Nice. Thanks.”

“Yeah.” Derek cleared his throat. “Well, that’s. Good. Then.”

“Yeah, good.”

And then he was gone. 

Stiles stared at the empty doorway for a moment before he crept out into the wall and back to his bedroom. “Elvis,” he muttered, taking in the vacant bedroom, “has left the building.”

He sat on his bed, stunned and confused, trying to absorb what the heck just happened. The soft terry cloth rubbed against his fingers as he worried his sleeve, trying to figure out what it all meant. What he wanted it to mean. What Derek meant for it to mean.

Finally, Stiles decided to do the sensible thing. He was a teenager. That meant, when someone gave him a gift for Valentine’s Day, there was only one way to respond. He picked up his phone, made a mass text for the pack, and wrote in all caps.

‘DEREK ASKED ME TO BE HIS VALENTINE!!!!!!!’

He smirked and hit send.

One way or another, things would shake out.


End file.
